words left unspoken
by viennacantabile
Summary: Ice and Velma move past the things that don't matter and find each other on the other side. Pre-movie.


Disclaimer: Velma and Ice's families belong to me, but that's about it. :)

Note: This fic has been in the works for a long time, but ever since I posted once, Velma has been pouting at me to get this one up. Why? Oh, it has something to do with FP Week, but you shall see. :) Also, reviewers get cupcakes and silent favoriters get a big :[ . I mean, just so you know. :)

Thanks: **HedgehogQuill**, for exponentially increasing my post rate and being pretty much the coolest person I don't really know, and to **xXc0okieSsNcrEamXx**, **Megfly**, and **SheWhoDreamsByDarkness-x**, for just being all-around awesome. :)

* * *

words left unspoken

.

it was then in all your magnificence  
you were not ashamed to know me. Your breath moved tenderly  
over my face. And, spread across solemn distances,  
your smile entered my heart.

—Rainer Maria Rilke, "The Vast Night"

.

I knew then, dearest dear, all that I had never known before, the interfusion of spirit & sense, the double nearness, the mingled communion of touch & thought...One such hour ought to irradiate a whole life.

—Edith Wharton, her diary

.

"Why don't ya ever take me to your place, Ice?" she asks curiously one night as he sits on the edge of her bed, pulling his shirt on. Velma is curled up against the headboard, absently playing with a ribbon on her white slip.

Ice pauses so imperceptibly that anyone else wouldn't notice it in the darkness, but Velma, in the four months they've been together, has memorized every visible line and contour of his body and knows when they are the slightest bit disrupted.

"'Cause," he says, voice muffled by cloth, "ya wouldn' wanna see it."

She smiles a little. "How d'ya know?"

Ice tucks his shirt in. "All right," he says, moving on to his shoes, "maybe _I_ don' want ya to see it."

"Why?" Velma asks, voice low and steady. She traces circles on the white sheet underneath her.

He turns to look at her, and even in the dimness of evening his pale eyes are like a light. "It ain't your kinda place, Vee," he says flatly.

She moves over to Ice, puts her arms around him. "Any place that's yours's my kinda place," she whispers into his shoulder.

Ice sighs, glancing away again. "It ain't like—this." He gestures around at her room.

Velma doesn't bother to look as she lightly rests her lips against the bare, tanned skin between collar and throat. She already knows it by heart—white furniture, blue bedspread, paper lamps—and the only thing in here that interests her now is the boy in her arms. "It don't have to be."

"That don't mean I don't want it to be," he says, his body completely still.

"I don't care," Velma says simply, gently turning his jaw so his eyes reluctantly meet hers.

There is a silence in which Ice stares down at her, seems to consider. "Ya really want to," he finally says.

Velma nods steadily. "Yeah."

Ice sighs, and looks away. "'F it means that much to ya, I'll take ya tomorrow," he says gruffly. "But—don't say I didn't warn ya."

She shakes her head slowly. "I won't," she says, then smiles at him and presses him closer, adding a quiet "thanks." Velma knows Ice isn't exactly the kind of guy who gets close to people, and that this is a lot, for him.

He lingers for a moment, then gets up. "I better go," he says, not really looking at her.

Velma gets to her feet, too, and stands so close she's just barely not touching him. "See ya," she says, looking straight up at Ice through her lashes. He kisses her then, and she leans into him, wraps her arms around his neck to pull him closer.

The kiss is entirely too long and too deep for a gesture that is supposed to say goodbye, and Ice, when he finally tears himself away, stares at her, still clutching her waist. "I better go," he repeats, breathing heavily, and Velma, eyes hazy and body aching, knows exactly what he means, knows that if he doesn't stop, she won't either.

"Yeah," she says, even though all she wants is to pull him back into her bedroom, lock the door, and finally, finally do everything she's been wanting to do since the moment she first saw him.

Ice drops a quick kiss on her forehead, holds her close for just one more moment. "Tomorrow," he promises, and is gone.

Velma sinks back onto her bed, staring at the window. For the first time in her life she wishes she were just a little less scrupulous about refusing to be like the Paulines and Bernices of West Side, because now she knows what it feels like to crave someone so badly it feels like there is fire running through your veins. Now she knows what _wanting_ is like.

But Velma also knows that nice girls aren't supposed to feel things like this. Her mother has never gotten past a few deeply embarrassed words of gentle caution, but her sisters have been more than happy to discuss the subject with her on their visits to West Side. "Wait," Astrid says in her practiced East Side accent, ever the well-meaning eldest sister, "you'll be glad you did. You don't want to end up _in the family way_, do you?"

"Oh, don't be silly," Katrina disagrees in a much breezier tone, taking the opposite position, as is customary in the Andersen family. "She won't, not if she's careful. _As long_ as you're careful, little sis," she adds sternly, and she presses a small case into Velma's hand.

Velma takes one look inside and snaps it shut with a gasp. "How'd ya—"

"Daddy's a doctor, remember?" smirks Katrina with a wave of her cigarette. "It pays to visit the hospital once or twice, make friends with the right people."

"You mean make friends with the right male nurses," Astrid corrects, rolling her eyes at Velma. "Honestly, you'd think she wasn't married."

"Well, _your_ definition of bein' married means actin' like you're eighty, so yeah, I guess I'm not," grins Katrina, and Velma, for what is surely the hundredth time that visit, has to make sure then that her sisters don't kill each other.

Velma sneaks a guilty glance at her father during dinner that night, remembering his mild-mannered "Be careful, Vilhe," after the first time she'd come back late from a date with Ice, hair mussed and lips swollen from kissing. The little case is burning a hole through her skirt pocket, and though she decides to keep it in her purse, just in case, Velma also decides that, for the time being, it's probably better to stay daddy's little girl.

So she and Ice set unspoken boundaries, limit themselves. Velma relieves him of shirt and shoes—she can't help it, the boy has an extremely nice upper body—but leaves the rest on. Ice is allowed to remove her skirt—what with her corselette and slip, she practically has another skirt on underneath, anyway—but nothing more. If things get too intense, they stop.

But every time he kisses her they get closer and closer to the inevitable, shedding pieces of clothing one by one, and it is harder and harder to control herself. Ice doesn't push her; he always knows when she starts getting antsy, and he pulls back right away. Velma is grateful for this: she's heard too many stories about girls getting dumped for not giving it up, or girls giving it up and getting dumped anyway. After all, it isn't exactly hard to tell that he wants to. Velma wants to, too, more than anything. And yet.

They haven't discussed it much, except to admit to each other that neither is all that experienced. "Just once," Ice says briefly. He doesn't talk about it, and Velma, although she wonders, doesn't ask, because she probably doesn't want to know. "Never," she confesses, arms locked around her knees, and tells him about the two or three boys before him who tried and left, fed up because she just didn't want to, not with them. Velma watches as the muscles in his jaw harden. She'll remember this conversation days later, when a grim-faced Ice comes to pick her up with a bandage wrapped around his knuckles and when Astrid, who still lives on their old East Side block with her husband, mentions in passing on a visit that a few of Velma's old boyfriends have been seen limping around the neighborhood with black eyes and bloody noses.

Velma isn't dumb; she can put two and two together. Ice is a possessive guy. He's very protective of her. And he's good with his fists. It isn't hard to figure out at all, really.

She also knows that the boys she dated before Ice were all jerks, and that they deserved everything they got. "Just as long as they don't come lookin' for ya," is all she says the next time she sees him, and Ice smiles crookedly at her and says, "Never even saw me comin'."

Velma nearly jumps him right then and there, before reminding herself that it probably isn't a good idea to rip his clothes off in the middle of the hallway at school. As it is, it's hard enough restraining herself to a very long, very lingering kiss that earns a reprimand from a passing teacher and a snort from an incredulous Action. Ice doesn't even flinch, just keeps right on kissing her like there's nothing else in the world to do. And that, according to the girls, is what makes him such a catch for Pauline and Bernice and the female hangers-on buzzing around the Jets.

"It's because he never, ever looks at other girls," Clarice tells her with a smile at lunch that day.

Graziella rolls her eyes affectionately. "'S true," she shrugs, with a hint of piqued pride. "Before you moved here, we weren't even sure if he _liked_ girls, cause that's how much he paid attention to 'em. But now, well—I could dance around singin' the national anthem in my underthings an' he'd still be lookin' at _you_, Vel," she says, shaking her head.

"She should know," says Clarice, a wicked grin covering her pretty face.

Graziella rolls her eyes again, and Velma decides to overlook the way two spots of red appear high on her best friend's cheeks. "Oh, very funny, Clarice. I ain't Pauline, y'know."

"Thank God for that," sighs Clarice, and they spend the next ten minutes discussing Pauline's lengthy list of conquests—which, Graziella and Clarice are quick to assure her, does not include Velma's boyfriend.

"Pauline calls him the one that got away, y'know—but we just figure Ice was too smart for her," explains Clarice knowingly, and Velma can't hold back a dreamy smile.

"But if he an' Pauline didn't—does that mean he's never even—" gapes Graziella, her eyes wide.

"No," Velma cuts in suddenly, the smile leaving her face as her friends turn to look at her. "He has."

Clarice's mouth drops open. "Vel, ya haven't—"

Velma shakes her head, embarrassed. "No, of course not!" She hesitates. "He said just once, anyway."

"Wonder who it was, then," Clarice murmurs, looking impressed.

"But you've been with him for—what, two months, haven't ya, Vel?" Graziella prods, ignoring Clarice. "An' ya _still _haven't…?"

Velma shakes her head again. "No," she repeats.

Graziella smirks. "Well, ya don't know what you're missin', Vel," she giggles. "Why're ya waitin' so long? Just go ahead an' get it over with."

Velma shrugs, not knowing what to say, and Graziella takes this as her cue to cut her eyes to Clarice. "It ain't just me, honey, Clarice thinks it's fun, too," she quips, and Clarice rolls her eyes, but doesn't disagree.

Velma's own mouth drops open, and she stares at the dark-haired girl. Velma is honestly shocked; she's simply never categorized Clarice as that kind of girl. After all, she certainly can't be lumped in with her twin, Bernice, and definitely not with Pauline—Clarice is, well, _classy_, Velma thinks, her mind racing. If someone like _her_ could do that—

And then Ice settles into the seat next to her, carelessly putting his books down and draping his arm around her, and as Velma turns to say hi, she can't help but smile as she watches him do all the little, everyday things she's gotten used to—work his way through both his lunch and the half of hers that she sets aside for him, sit through Graziella's chatter with only the occasional eyeroll in her direction, give her the best part of his cookie because he knows she likes the ones that are still soft in the center. I love him, she thinks, threading her fingers through his, I love him. The realization is sudden as a wave breaking on the shore, at first, but after that, it's as natural as the tides, breathing in and out. Velma's never met anyone like Ice and she wants to know every last part of him, both hidden and visible; she wants, Velma thinks, to understand him.

Two months past this lunchtime conversation she remembers so well and Velma still doesn't, not quite, but she's getting there. The barriers are cracking, falling, and Velma hopes that tomorrow, another one will be swept away. As for that last, most physical bridge to cross, well—she still doesn't know. Every time she watches Ice exit through her window, Velma hears Graziella's words in her mind and she has to stop herself from calling him back, opening herself up to him completely, giving him everything she has to offer and more. It would only be too easy.

All the same, though, she resists. Velma isn't exactly sure what she's waiting for, either; she just knows that she wants it to feel exactly right, and it hasn't. Not yet.

But when it does, she'll know.

.

"Ya sure about this?" Ice asks yet again as he leads her up the narrow, cramped stairs of his apartment building.

Velma gives him an exasperated look. "I ain't runnin' now, if that's what ya mean."

"Just checkin'," he shrugs as they reach the tiny landing. "This's it," he says, gesturing toward the wooden door on the right that is painted dark blue and stenciled with a black '2'.

Velma puts her hands on her hips and arches an eyebrow. "Real scary, honey," she says pointedly.

Ice puts his key in the lock and glances back at her. "Last chance," he says, and he is half-grinning like it's a joke but his dark eyebrows are knitted and she knows he really means it.

Velma looks back at him, doesn't blink. He raises one eyebrow, shrugs in defeat, and opens the door.

The first thing she sees is a shabby hall table with picture frames sitting on top of a lace covering. As she leans over to examine the photos, she gets a good look at the lace, and notes in surprise that, though worn, the handiwork is exquisite. And then Velma forgets all about that as she sees the little boy with the pale eyes in the pictures. She steals a glance back up at Ice, who is scanning the room to their right, his eyebrows still drawn tight. Who'dve thought he could look so young and innocent? What happened? she wonders. Looking back at the pictures, she sees just one of a dark-haired, handsome man with his arm tightly around a beautiful fair-haired woman in a white dress. The man's smile is fascinating, but unnerving. Oh, she realizes, eyes darting surreptitiously again to Ice. _That's_ what happened.

"Ma," Ice calls, "we're here."

"I'm in the kitchen, John," floats from the open doorway to the left.

Velma starts forward, but Ice holds her back and gazes down at her. "Don' expect much," he mutters gruffly, before leading her into the room.

She looks around. He's not kidding. The paint is peeling, the rough table and chairs are stained, the cramped room is bare and claustrophobic. It's clean, but that's about all that can be said of it. It is, to be quite honest, a depressing sight, compared to the airy, cheerful, sky-blue and sunny yellow kitchen at home.

And then Velma's eyes land on a woman who can only be Ice's mother. Mrs. Kelly is thin, very thin, and her blonde hair is faded and falling from its knot into her tired face. But she has a smile just like her son's, and a rich, warm voice with an accent that makes Velma think of soda bread and potato stew, though that might just be the smell permeating the tiny kitchenette from the covered basket on the table and the pot on the stove.

"Well, hello, there, dearie," Mrs. Kelly greets, coming forward and embracing her. Velma loves the sound of her lilting voice, how the rise and fall of everyday words somehow turns into the loveliest music when Ice's mother speaks.

"Hi, Mrs. Kelly," she says, a bit shy in spite of herself. Velma wants to make a good impression; after all, isn't it true that boys listen to their mothers? Certainly her own brothers do.

"Sit, sit ye down," Mrs. Kelly urges kindly. "Dinner'll be ready in just a moment."

"Can I help?" Velma asks automatically, the manners her own mother has drilled into her coming to the forefront.

"Oh, isn't that sweet of ye," beams Mrs. Kelly. "But I've got it all under control, don't ye worry."

As Velma nods, Ice tugs her over to the little table and pulls out a chair for her. "Thanks, honey," Velma smiles up at him, before remembering where she is. She glances back at Mrs. Kelly, who just laughs affectionately and reaches over to ruffle Ice's hair.

"That's m'boy," she says proudly, "taught 'im well, didn't I?"

Velma nods wholeheartedly. "Ya did."

"Though I don't know why he wants to run around with that pack of hooligans," Mrs. Kelly says, clucking her tongue as she sets the small pot down on the table. "Riff 'n Tony, now, they seem like perfectly nice young lads, if'n they'd only stop their horseplayin'. But as of yet, they're not fit company, if ye ask me."

"Ma," murmurs Ice.

"Oh, listen t'me," laughs Mrs. Kelly quietly, shaking her head. "Goin' on an' on, just as if ye weren't here!" She sits down and begins ladling out large portions of stew. "But tell me—how did he ever meet a nice young lady like you, dear?"

Velma dimples. "Riff," she admits, taking her bowl. "His girl—Graziella—is my best friend."

"See, Riff ain't so bad, Ma," says Ice, squeezing her hand under the table and giving her a slow smile.

Mrs. Kelly, watching them, smiles, too. "Well, now, I don't suppose he is," she says fondly, before her expression flickers for the smallest moment and she continues, a bit more quietly. "I don't mind tellin' ye, Velma, dear, I don't know when the last time was that I saw that look on his face."

If Ice were a blushing kind of guy, thinks Velma, his face would be pretty red, right about now. As it is, he busies himself with wolfing down his food.

"Go on," presses Mrs. Kelly softly, "eat. You're such a wee thing, y'know. You've such a lovely figure, an' such a pretty face," she says.

Ice looks sideways at her, squeezes her hand. "Yeah."

"Thanks, Mrs. Kelly," Velma says, feeling her cheeks turn the faintest shade of pink at Ice's gaze. She's been told that she is pretty all her life, but somehow it means more in this tiny ugly kitchen than it does in all the shiny new cars of East Side. Velma ducks her head and eats quickly and tidily. This is certainly not what she's used to, but that doesn't mean it's not just as good.

As she listens to Ice and his mother go back and forth a bit more about the Jets, Velma wonders about Mrs. Kelly and the man in the photo. Ice hasn't told her everything about his life before his father died and he moved back in with his mother, but she knows enough to figure most of it out. Ice's father was good-looking, and swept Mrs. Kelly off her feet, Velma decides, after some thought. It's a familiar story, except in the books they never tell you what happens when happily ever after ends. In this case, she thinks, remembering the hardness in Ice's eyes whenever anyone mentions the word _father_, whatever happened wasn't good.

And then Ice is pushing back his chair and Velma blinks, startled to find that the meal is over. She gets up and insists on doing the dishes, and after much protest—"You're a _guest_, after all!"—Mrs. Kelly acquiesces.

"Well, I'll be goin' to my sewin' circle, then," she says with a smile, picking up her purse, "I'll be back in a few hours. There's the leftovers if ye get peckish."

Ice laughs. "We just ate, ma," he reminds her patiently, then kisses her forehead before shooing her out the door. Velma, watching, feels a rush of tenderness toward him.

"Thank you for the dinner, Mrs. Kelly," she adds, and when Ice finishes locking the door and turns around, he looks at her, and doesn't say anything.

"Your ma's nice," she offers, not knowing what else to say.

"Yeah," Ice says tonelessly. "Sad, like a little bird, but nice. She likes you," he offers with a hint of a smile before going on in short, spare sentences, for once seemingly unable to stop himself. Velma, eyes locked on his face, listens, and loves him even more for it. "She didn't once get scared. Most of the time, she's fine. Then some word or sound'll set her off—an' she won't be able to stop cryin'." He shakes his head, and Velma can see that his breathing is coming faster now. "She—" Ice stops again, his eyes closing, and after a minute, his breathing slows to its regular pace.

Velma gazes at him, heart contracting as he opens his pale blue eyes again. And there is that famous poker face—if she didn't know him so well, she wouldn't be able to tell anything was the matter at all.

"She used to sing, a lot," Ice adds at last, glancing at her. "When I was little." He hesitates. "It was a long time ago, but I still remember."

Velma slips her hand in his, and they stand in silence for a long, long moment, the weight of memory pressing down on them.

"Show me around?" she finally asks quietly, looking up at him, and he nods.

"Though there ain't much more'n this," he says with a shrug, as he leads her through the other door in the entranceway and into the small living room area, where there is just an old couch and a low table, both draped in more lace.

"Your ma's?" Velma asks, putting two and two together.

Ice nods.

"It's really pretty," she says honestly.

"She loves it," Ice says, then pauses. "'S what gets her through the day when she's by herself."

Velma doesn't answer, just wraps her arms around him as he leads her into the narrow hallway at the end of the room. There are three doors, each the same colorless shade of gray.

"Ma's," Ice says, gesturing toward the door on the left, "the bathroom," he continues, motioning toward the middle door, "an' this's my room," he says, pushing open the last door on the right.

Before entering, Velma smiles at him. "So this's where it all happens, huh?"

He doesn't smile back. "Yeah."

The room is bare, and has just a low twin bed with a sagging mattress and a threadbare blanket, next to a makeshift bureau made of wooden crates, to keep the small window company. She can see the nails in the splintery wall boards, and the bleached white spaces on the wall where some other tenant's pictures used to hang. There is no sense of _home_, there is no feeling that anyone really lives here, let alone the boy she loves. It's possibly the dreariest, saddest sight Velma has ever laid eyes on.

She turns around to face him. Ice is standing as unnaturally still as always, eyes trained on her, and Velma regards him for a minute. She takes in the long litheness and the tensile motionlessness of his body before shifting her gaze upward to his face, where she has to catch her breath—she's never stopped being amazed by the intensity of his pale eyes.

"Well?" Ice says. She barely hears his voice, the syllable is so clipped.

Velma doesn't say anything, just reaches up and brings his face down to hers and kisses him.

As they break apart for air, she looks Ice in the eye. "It don't change a thing," she says, lacing her fingers through his. "It'd take a lot more'n that to scare me off, ya dope."

Ice half-smiles at her and Velma realizes he's been holding his breath, but now she is, too, because this is the smile she loves to see: the one that makes him look just like the little boy in the pictures.

"I shoulda known," he says. He draws her closer, his hands around her waist, and rests his chin on top of her head. She closes her eyes, breathes in the warm, clean scent of him, and he says it so quietly she's not sure she hears it: "I love you, Vee."

Velma closes her eyes and repeats the words she isn't sure she's heard over and over in her mind, letting them saturate her body. She doesn't move, just holds him as tightly as she can.

And then he leans in and kisses her, and this kiss is different. This kiss says there is nothing left to hold back, no part of himself that he hasn't shared with her. And Velma, so close to him that he feels like just another part of her body, can't do anything but reciprocate as she presses ever closer, desperate for his touch.

Velma reaches under his shirt, feeling the warm skin of his back underneath her hands—this is not new, this is familiar territory—as she pushes the soft, worn cloth up and over his shoulders. She rests her head on his chest and pauses for a minute before she takes a step back and gazes up at him. What she's about to do will change everything, but Velma is not scared at all.

She slips her skirt off, then goes further, to her sweater and slip, til she is standing in just her lingerie. Ice, breathing heavily, doesn't move, just stands there, gazing down at her. Then she reaches for his belt, and he closes his hand over hers.

"Vee."

The single word asks: do you know what you are doing? And Velma answers by bringing her other hand up and continuing in her task. Yes, say her hands, yes, say her kisses as she hooks her fingers around the waistband of his chinos and draws him back to the bed. Yes.

.

He only pauses once.

"Ya sure?" he asks, drawing back to look at her, really look at her. Ice is panting and Velma, feeling the heat of his body pressed against hers, can only guess what it must have cost him to stop.

She nods once, twice. She's positive. She wants this. She wants him. And it is _right_. "I love you," she whispers.

Ice closes his eyes and Velma starts to worry just a bit before he opens them and focuses on her face. He leans forward. "I love you, too," he breathes in her ear, and now there is no doubt left at all.

.

It hurts, a little, but Velma, her eyes on Ice's face above her, isn't thinking about the pain at all.

.

It is not ideal. Afterwards as he holds her she notices that his feet hang off the edge of the uncomfortable bed, and the sheets are scratchy, and there is a water stain on the ceiling. The room is just as sterile and unwelcoming as it was before. The only thing that has changed is them—but that, Velma thinks, is everything. Just like in her own room, he is the only thing that matters here, and to remind her of that there is the damp warmth of his body against hers, and the feel of their intertwined hands as they lie, exhausted and spent. She nestles her head into his chest, and she can hear his heart beating, slow and steady. Hers. It is _hers_.

"God, I love you," she murmurs again into his skin, and Ice, stroking her hair, pulls her up to rest on top of him and repeats, eyes soft, those three words she thinks she will never, ever get tired of hearing, back to her.

.

Still, there is the tiniest bit of uncertainty.

"What was it like with the other girl?" Velma asks as she roots around in the bedclothes for her slip, trying to keep her voice unconcerned.

Ice, sitting against the wall and watching her amusedly, catches her hand and squeezes it. "What other girl?"

"You know," she says, looking back at him.

He considers this, then gives her a slow smile, pulling her back to him. "Oh." He trails his fingertips down her still-bare stomach, and kisses her. "Don't even remember, really. But not like this, I can tell ya that much."

Velma tries not to let this distract her, though it proves to be very difficult. "Better?" she gasps, fighting to keep her voice even as they break for air.

Ice shakes his head. "It don't even compare."

And then he tells her again, but this time without any words at all, exactly what he means.

.

They are fully dressed and more or less composed again by the time Mrs. Kelly comes home, and Velma hopes that Ice's mother won't consider the fact that they cannot stop smiling at each other to be too suspicious. Velma's checked her hair, her makeup, her clothes, and she's positive that she looks the same, but still, Velma can't help but think that something that makes her _feel_ so different should also make her _look_ different.

Despite Mrs. Kelly's friendly entreaties, they don't stay too long. Ice insists that he has to get her home before it gets too late, and Velma, holding on to his hand, shivers as she meets the intensity of his gaze.

"Come again, dearie," urges Mrs. Kelly, and Velma promises, wholeheartedly, that she will.

The walk home is a whirl of alleys and streets and shadows and stars—Velma doesn't feel like talking just now, and Ice, never very garrulous to begin with, just drapes his arm around her shoulders and doesn't break this most comfortable quiet until they reach the steps to her apartment building.

"Thanks," he says, cradling her face in his palm, and Velma knows exactly what he means as she raises herself up to her tiptoes and touches her lips to his, very gently.

Ice gazes at her, and in that look is every detail of how he feels about her, spelled out for the world to see. "I'll pick ya up tomorrow," he promises, and then, after one last look at her, he is off into the night.

Velma sinks down to the steps and watches him go, her heart racing, until he is lost in the shadows. Thank you, she thinks, echoing the words left unspoken, lips pressed to her fingers as she raises her eyes to the moon up above, for loving me.

.

Velma doesn't even have to say anything at school the next day—Graziella takes one look at her as she and Ice walk in and _squeals_. "Oh, _Vel!_" she gushes, as soon as a bemused Ice hurriedly kisses her goodbye and jets off to his first class, casting wary glances behind him.

"What?" asks Clarice, detaching herself from Big Deal and rushing over. Then she looks at the very self-conscious Velma and shakes her head. "Ya _didn't_," she breathes, looking impressed.

"How was it?" Graziella demands excitedly. "How was _he_?"

"We've never gotten the full details," Clarice explains dryly. "Seeing how he's just about the only guy—besides Baby John, of course—Pauline never had, an' all."

At this, Velma is forced to laugh. "How could ya tell?" she asks with a sigh, amazed. She'd deny it, but by now Velma knows that it's pretty well useless to try and hide something like this from Graziella.

Her best friend smirks. "Well, for one thing, he don't look at you like he _ain't_ seen ya naked, anymore," she giggles, as Velma instantly colors.

"Graz!" Clarice scolds, her mouth twitching. She puts a hand on Velma's arm. "Ya just look—really happy," she says simply.

Graziella snickers. "I _bet_ she is."

"He said he loves me," Velma confesses with a small, secretive smile. "How couldn't I be?"

Graziella and Clarice both freeze in their tracks and stare. Clarice recovers first: "Oh, Velma," she sighs happily, "that's fantastic. Just—fantastic."

And then Graziella comes back to life. "Yeah, yeah, that was obvious," she says, waving her hand, "but Vel_—how was it?_"

Velma giggles mischievously. "Wouldn't _you_ like to know," she teases, and dances away to class, floating ten feet up in the air.

.

Later, as they are tidying up their makeup in the bathroom between classes, Graziella puts a hand on Velma's shoulder. "Look: was it awful?" she asks, voice serious for once. "You can tell me, Vel." She gives a rueful shrug as she replaces her lipstick in her purse, as if remembering. "The first time's always bad, y'know."

Velma gazes at her best friend. "No, it—it wasn't," she disagrees slowly. "It was—wonderful. I love him," she subsides, not knowing how to explain it any further, not knowing how to tell Graziella that the only way it wouldn't have been is if it had been with anyone else.

Graziella stares at her for a long time. "Then you're lucky, Vel," she says, her voice soft.

And Velma, thinking about the feel of his hand in hers and the way their bodies fit so perfectly together and how he still gives her the same smile as though absolutely nothing has changed—even though it has, it has—can't help but smile, herself. "Yeah," she says wonderingly, as Graziella pushes the door open and they head out into the light, "I am."

.

.end.


End file.
